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Authors: Mari Carr
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By
Mari Carr
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Copyright 2013 Mari Carr
Cover Design by Valerie Tibbs
Formatted by
IRONHORSE Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Jennifer O’Neal released a long sigh as she stared at the front door of Midnight Ink. What the hell was she doing here? She wasn’t this kind of person. Was she? The kind who called in sick to work to get a tattoo? The type who wore a tube-top in public? The sort who allowed some stranger to cover her back in ink?
No. She wasn’t.
And that was the problem.
Marcus’ voice drifted back to her.
I’m bored. Day after day of the same thing, Jennifer. I wake up every morning thinking there’s gotta be more to life than this.
At the time, the words—when paired with
I’ve met someone else
—had cut through her like a machete. She’d been maimed, mortally wounded, devastated.
There was security in familiarity and after seventeen years of marriage, she and Marcus were about as familiar as it got. Their lives had fallen into a very comfortable routine. Maybe they didn’t talk as much as they had in the early days of their relationship, maybe they didn’t set the sheets on fire, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. For her, trading passion and excitement for a safe, reliable future with the man who had become her best friend had been worth it.
Marcus hadn’t felt the same.
Which left her here. In front of a tattoo shop in the middle of Canal Street on a Tuesday morning taking advantage of a “New Beginnings” sale.
This was a mistake. She started to turn around, but before she could take the first step, the front door opened and a bell jangled, drawing her from her thoughts.
“Jennifer?”
She nodded mutely as she stared at Caliph, the artist she’d met with briefly the day after New Year’s when they’d sat down to design her tattoo.
He was another reason she’d found it so difficult to return. He was the exact description of every man her mother had ever warned her to stay the hell away from. Tall and rough-looking, with a shaved head and muscular arms covered in bright tattoos, he was intimidating and overwhelming with an air of danger that made her stomach feel funny things that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with sex. Which was weird because she hadn’t felt those kinds of stirrings in a few years. Jesus. Maybe it was closer to a decade.
Caliph grinned when it became obvious she wasn’t going to speak. “I thought that was you. Reconsidering?”
She started to shake her head no, then stopped and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He stepped to the side and gestured toward the shop. “Wanna come in and talk about it? No pressure. You won’t be the first person to change their mind and I promise it won’t hurt my feelings if you do. Tattoos are forever, so it’s smart to be completely positive.”
“Okay.”
She managed to take the steps required, pausing only briefly once she was next to him. The man had her by at least a foot and a hundred pounds. He was massive.
“Good girl,” he murmured with a genuine smile as he placed his hand on her lower back and gently directed her inside the older building. She tried to repress the shiver his soft touch provoked. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee, then we’ll snag some seats in the reception area. I haven’t hit my quota of caffeine for the day, so your cold feet are coming in handy. Giving me a chance to polish off another cup or three.”
Another artist looked over at them as they walked past and pointed to Caliph with narrowed eyes. “You finish that pot again without making another one and I’ll kick your ass.”
“That might actually be a threat if you had a hope in hell of beating me in a fight, Shep. But, of course, you don’t,” Caliph teased.
Jennifer eyed the other artist, taking in his equally impressive height and the wicked scar on his brow. She wasn’t sure she shared Caliph’s confidence. Then she studied Caliph’s Mr. Universe-sized physique and suspected if nothing else, it would be one hell of a fight.
The receptionist—Sassy—looked up from her seat behind the front desk as Caliph and Shep were talking. The last time Jennifer had visited Midnight Ink, the streak in Sassy’s hair had been hot pink. Today, it was a vivid red that brought out that same color in the tattooed roses on her full sleeves. “Wow. If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. Shep, you’re one to talk about leaving the pot empty. I’m starting to think I’m the only one in the place who knows how to work the machine.”
Shep grinned at her. “But your coffee is the best, Sassy.”
Sassy shot him a dirty look. “Don’t even try that line on me. You’re the king of bullshit and I know it. I’m heading out to run a couple of errands, so you two are on your own for a while. Rosie is coming in later this afternoon. Y’all need anything?”
Caliph and Shep both said no.
“You good, Jennifer?”
Jennifer nodded, surprised the receptionist remembered her name. She’d only been in the shop once before and even that visit had been brief. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Sassy stopped at the front door and gave her an encouraging grin. “You’re in good hands, baby doll. Caliph is one of the best.” With that, she left.
“You want some coffee?” Caliph offered when they reached the pot. “Sassy really does make the best brew in the state of Louisiana.”
She shook her head. She was already too keyed up, on edge. Coffee would only make that condition worse.
Caliph poured himself a cup and winked as he put the now-empty pot back. Then he led her back to the reception area, waiting until she sat down. He grabbed the seat next to her, chuckling. “You’d think after six years of being my best friend, Shep would know better than to tell me what to do. I’m just ornery enough to always do the opposite.”
She laughed lightly at his joke. Then Jennifer was struck by how wrong the stereotypes about tattooed guys in leather were in regards to Caliph. How many women would walk by him on the street and feel genuine fear? Hell, she probably would have felt the same way prior to meeting him. She would have reached into her purse to wrap her hand around the can of pepper spray, not relaxing her white-knuckled grip on it until Caliph was well out of sight.
That realization made her feel guilty.
Caliph stretched out his legs, filling their tiny corner.
She grinned.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re huge. It’s like you take up every spare inch of space and then some.”
He laughed, clearly not offended by her observation. “Yeah. Hit my growth spurt at fourteen. Spent the next four years turning down the high school football coach who begged me to play. Jesus, the guy tried everything from bribery to threats. I think he even cried once. He couldn’t understand why a kid my size would spend his afternoons in the art room, drawing stupid pictures, rather than on the gridiron.”
“Looks like you had the last laugh. You’ve made a career of art.”
Caliph leaned forward. “You don’t know the half of it. Fate is a bitch with a wicked sense of humor and I think she likes me. Few years ago, that coach showed up here and I gave him his first tat. He’s been back three times since for more ink.”
“Bet he’s glad you spent the time honing your skills now.”
“Yeah, but the truth is nobody was surprised when I started doing tattoos. Been drawing pictures since the cradle, according to my mom.”
Jennifer had looked through a portfolio of his work. It was beautiful, a lot of his artwork simple and colorful. It was the main reason she’d selected him to do her tattoo. Midnight Ink was known as one of the best shops in New Orleans, with a reputation for cleanliness and incredible designs.
“Must be nice to have a job where you can put your talents to work.”
He nodded. “It is. What do you do, Jennifer?”
“I’m the manager of Le Chateau Bayonne.”
Caliph’s eyebrows rose. “Hey, that’s a classy hotel. Man, I’d love to see the inside of that place. Heard about the European décor. I know a guy who stayed there once. Super pricy apparently, but he said it was the best bed he’s ever slept in.”
Jennifer was flattered by his comment, even as she considered the hotel’s typical clientele. Caliph hadn’t exaggerated. The nightly room rates were more than she paid in one month’s rent for her crappy apartment.
After the divorce, she and Marcus had sold their three-bedroom home, neither of them able to afford the mortgage on their own, let alone buy the other person out. So, she’d been uprooted from her nice, friendly neighborhood and thrust back into the world of paying rent on a lousy, too-tiny apartment in a less than desirable part of town.
In some ways, it rubbed against the grain to spend her days surrounded by people for whom money wasn’t a concern while she was constantly counting her pennies, sticking to a budget. Her salary was okay—pretty good by most standards—but it was tough adjusting to living on one paycheck after years of sharing the load with Marcus and his teaching pay.
“It really is beautiful inside—French doors, gabled windows, wrought iron balconies. If you ever want a tour of the hotel, just let me know.”
Caliph’s face lit up. “Seriously? Because yeah, I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”
Jennifer was happy to have something cool to offer. Caliph was fascinating to her on about a million different levels, which made her feel like the Queen of Dullsville.
Then she realized her stomach was no longer twisted in knots and her fears over getting the tattoo fell away. Caliph had promised not to pressure her and he hadn’t. Hell, he hadn’t even mentioned the ink. He’d simply sat down and talked to her until her nervousness faded away.
“I’d like to get the tattoo,” she said quietly.
“Hell yeah, that’s my girl. Come on.” He offered a hand to help her rise, then led her to his corner of the shop, the wooden floors creaking along the way. Jennifer studied each station they passed as a means of distraction. Brightly colored Mardi Gras beads adorned one, while Caliph’s was much simpler. Sparse actually. Just an old family photo sat in a frame next to his equipment.
“Did you eat breakfast like I said?” Caliph asked.
She nodded. The toast she’d consumed had tasted like sawdust, but she’d choked it down.
“Pretty blouse. Take it off.”
She’d covered the tube top she’d bought especially for today with a blouse. She’d had to force herself to keep the top four buttons open because she didn’t want to look like a complete prude in front of Caliph.
She could have walked down the street in just the tube top as it was unseasonably warm. You had to love January in New Orleans. The temperature could be fifty degrees one day and eighty the next. For the past few days, they’d been riding in the upper seventies with blue skies and full sunshine that made it feel even hotter.
Despite the gorgeous weather, it had been uncomfortable for her to walk out of her apartment, sans bra, in the revealing outfit. She wasn’t exactly lacking in the breast department and the only time she took off her double D bra was in the privacy of her own home.
She tugged the blouse off, folding and placing it on a nearby chair, sighing softly as she acknowledged the blouse was far from pretty and much closer to plain. The best description for her wardrobe was conservative. She did a mental eye roll. That was being nice. The truth was her clothing—like her—was boring.